


a rebel court of crowns

by aurorawinds



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pining, Princes & Princesses, Rebels, Romantic Soulmates, Royalty, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorawinds/pseuds/aurorawinds
Summary: a royal!au excerpt
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 15
Kudos: 49





	a rebel court of crowns

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on Tumblr (slightly revised)! i wanted to move it on here too, just in the chance that I am able to find time and write a Part Two <33333 (sending love always!!)

The day beautifully wept.

Winds swept past a partially-cracked window, enveloping the entirety of the private chambers with the most tranquil stroke of a gentle breeze. A pageant of fresh smells floated amongst the spring air with a horde of dandelions littering the windowsill. Staffs of slim light dawned down from the sky with its golden grandeur, like a cleanse of the land and the banishment of winter’s strangling coldness. 

The song of the air heralded the new oncoming. It was the theatre of the distant forest of trees that wove through lullabies and a brazen beak. An opus of Mother Earth’s doing. 

Threading through light lines with expert flicks of his wrist, Prince Sander’s brows were creased together in heavy concentration, poking his tongue out as he turned the worn-out journal around for a better angle.

He was contentedly at peace.

His art came to him like spells, and as if on cue, it dispersed into a shattering nuisance once a tough knock on his door made him stop, dropping his hand. The French ebony-veneered writing ( _ drawing _ ) desk that had been given to him on his tenth birthday still held itself strongly, his safe haven amongst the smaller library and anteroom that occupied his private space. 

“Come in.”

In walked Lady Mabelie, almost rushed in her appearance, wearing a fine jacket with solid golden buttons and trousers made of the most sought-after silk. Even if she teetered upon her late fifties, she always cleverly hid it through her skillfully-applied makeup, as well as the white wide-brimmed hat that sat comfortably atop her head. It was hard to ignore the silver bracelet too, flaunting the largest sapphire that Sander had ever witnessed in his life. 

“I—“ She made a face. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Partially annoyed to be lambasted for such foolery, Sander made the same face back. “Like what?”

“You’re very fortunate that it was me and not anyone else who wished to come in here.”

Sander fumbled with his cuffs, donning the white lace, collared blouse that he loosened a few hours ago as the sun shone brightly upon his face. It flowed ever so gracefully around his bodily lean frame. “And  _ why _ did you wish to come in here?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Sander restrained himself from not reeling his eyes to the back of his head. 

“You are a young man. You are also still free of performing any royal duties at the moment. Do you not seek anywhere that isn’t the confinement of your own sleeping quarters?”

_ Sigh. _

“No.” Sander bluntly told her. He gestured his hand out towards his window, rather out of steam. “Do you not see how I always have to be escorted anywhere out of the palace with a hoard of servants or guards at all times? Even out to the gardens!”

It was an impossible task to put his frustration into words. The guards that constantly roamed about - of the brawn kind against physical attacks, and the food tasters, who would taste every dish before he did at any public or private function to make sure there were no poisons. Servants of all sorts and positions ran about the palace at all hours of day and night, leaving very little chance for alone time or privacy, except in a very few instances.

“You are next in line. The heir to the throne, Your Grace. You are also, perhaps, the most sought-after man at the moment…in more ways than one. It’s only proper and for your own safety and well-being.”

Sander shook his head sadly at the mess of scribbles in front of him, finally half-turning to face her. “That is not my destiny. You know that.”

He did not desire this life. His imagination ran wild as to what he could do past the walls of the palace, past the invisible chains that so tied him to the very grounds that he stood on. The stories he had listened to with the widest eyes when he was younger…almost unheard of to someone of his royal status. 

He could explore and travel to places he had never experienced, talk to new people, settle into a new home with an entirely new life…

He could fall in love, too. 

“How many times do I need to tell you this?” Mabelie stepped closer, resting a cold hand upon his shoulder. “It is not a choice. Others have killed,  _ and would kill _ , for it. To be in your shoes.” 

“The King—“ She stopped herself. “ _ Your father _ , has sacrificed almost everything to reign in the peace that we so cherish now. For the Court. For you.”

_ Mmph _ . Sander had only heard the words a million times before. He no longer wanted to. “Can you, please, call Lady Noor and tell her to come up here?”

Unable to simply stand back, Mabelie made it clear. “Your rebel ways won’t get you very far as you grow older, but I will do as you wish.”

“As soon as you can, please.”

Her lips set into a tight smile. “Very well. Enjoy the last few hours before The Formal Dinner. Your finery is already laid out in the guest chambers adjacent.” She tipped her head. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness.”

Sander barely acknowledged a subtle nod in her direction, waiting until she stepped out and clicked the door shut to finally feel like he could breathe once more, shakily strung out of his original peaceful state.

He found his pencil again, almost angrily grabbing at his stack of journals and picking another one out. He flipped through to the earliest pages and nearly whimpered, eyes immediately glossing over.

There was no time to cry. He delicately traced his fingers over familiar paper-thin features, recalling everything that he could ever remember. Any photo remnants of his mother’s very existence still lay burned to ashes in the dungeons below. 

Her beauty and grace had trumped anything that so elegantly hung and displayed itself through the corridors of the palace, her gentle fingers and humming lullaby of a voice that lulled him to sleep every night as a child. Her wishes to allow him to continue his passion for the creative arts, getting her hands on any and all of the pencils, paintbrushes, canvases that she could find in the outside markets with selling merchants. The love that she simply gave him every single day, no matter if he were at his highest or lowest. 

He would’ve done anything for her to still be here with him. 

The pencil swirled on a new page,  _ beautiful _ , deeper, and deeper, then scratched and dug,  **chaos** . 

Sander ripped the paper out and tore it to shreds. 

The spare pieces flew out of the same partially-cracked window, out to the wind’s mercy, never to be seen again. They would travel along the spines of the clouds’ grace to be devoured by the Earth’s hands.

To become anew.

.

He visibly felt like somebody else in his royal ceremonial attire, wearing his pure black tail-coat with matching waistcoat and breeches, white lace cuffs and a matching ruffled silk jabot, buckled black boots, and white gloves with golden embroidery. His fabric had been noticeably empty compared to the various medal pins that his fatherly counterpart proudly displayed. 

The King, Lady Mabelie, Lady Noor, him, and a dozen other courtiers and servants and royal guards all stood by the entrance of the palace, awaiting their arrival for the night.

It was just approaching dusk, with the skies so stunningly painting over in hues of the lightest purples and pinks. Such light shone over the Royal Palace in majestic glory. 

The Welcoming Gate of Honour stunned in its gilded panels, even more so by the dying sunlight’s stroke. Often heralded as the entrance to a new world, its intricate and beautiful details were built over the years like the palace it guarded. Covered with over hundreds of thousands of golden leaves that had been crafted into the shapes of fleur de lys, masks of Apollo, crowns and other references to the Sun King and the Moon Queen, its lavish beauty cleared. 

“The Marquess of Assche has arrived.” The Head Royal Guard formally announced once the three grand carriages came into view. “The entire House.”

Everyone looked up at that, straightening their postures in knowing anticipation. It had been months since the last noble visit, and the entire palace aimed to impress. 

The sound of horse hooves hitting the ground seemed to drag on for centuries, only prolonging the wait even more anxiously. His palms sweated under the gloves, needing to open and close his palms constantly, especially once the vehicles came closer into view, only a mere few feet away as the royal guards all shifted into arrival stances.

Upon officially approaching at the entrance, the curtained carriages halted to a polished stop—the last of the sun highlighting the golden-molded crowns that lay atop each of them in rich standing. Its splendor was more than pomp. 

Who he assumed to be the Marquess of Assche stepped out first, wearing a similar uniform to his father’s, styled in a deep navy blue instead of royal red. The marchioness followed out afterwards, donning a cream evening dress and a tiny bejeweled crown atop her head, together with a court train and other accoutrements pinned to her fabric.

The husband and wife both stood to the side once outside, guarded by many as they properly clasped their hands in front of them.

It was soon that a girl about his age, with fair skin and light blonde hair that cascaded down, was escorted out of the largest horse-drawn carriage. She wore a simple green gown, but one that nearly trailed onto the ground like the previous, covered up by a quilted jacket while carrying a small, cloth-wrapped gift. The centerpiece honed in on the diamond-encrusted necklace spiraled around her neck, pleasing to the eye. 

Low murmurs flew around immediately, all gazes trained on her, as if in awe or pure starstruck. The imposing entrance became all but clear. 

But Sander’s eyes did not fly to her.

He found his heart alarmingly thudding inside of him at the fastest pace, a piercing gaze stuck on a boy of similar stature that stepped out right after, wholly riveted in just one electrifying second. 

Unlike his priors, the boy did not wear the same lavish attire. Rather, he regaled himself into a finely-tailored vest over a costly cotton button-down shirt and trousers.  _ The unofficial uniform of a successful merchant. _

It expelled him from having anything to do with the family, piquing Sander’s interest above anything else around him.

His throat turned dry. He could not force himself to look away, mesmerized. 

It was only fitting that he nearly choked when their eyes met. His soul stirred.

The boy offered a small, polite smile in greeting, but it was enough to make Sander’s knees feel like buckling under.  _ Oh, who was he? _

It made him ache, desiring to be the source of those lit eyes and dimpled cheeks. Something washed over Sander like a sense of safe harbour, of sunlit shores and pleasant winds. He had to clear his throat harder as the guests approached closer through the perfectly manicured walkway, attempting to regain composure after the sudden loop of his feelings, quickly realizing that the boy kept a close pace behind, but did not tag along beside the honorary figures strolling up to him right now. 

His attention dizzied.

It was only until everyone reached close proximity that he tried again to focus, concentrating on what was being said. 

“Your Majesty.” The Marquess of Assche addressed his father first, bowing politely. The women beside him both curtsied. “It is our honor to have been invited.”

“My Lord. My Lady.” The King began, regarding them with pleasant smiles. “The honor is mine. Please, come in after we all exchange our introductions. Let me welcome you and your family to my home.”

The burly man nodded with a hearty laugh, extending his arm out to the side. “Of course. This is my wife, the Marchioness Catherine of Assche, and our lovely daughter, Lady Britt.”

His father jubilantly nodded between all of them. “I’ve heard wonderful things. I also have my son and soon-to-be heir to the throne, Prince Sander, here by my side tonight.”

Their gazes all landed on him, regarding him with warm, definitely-fake smiles, following the same bow and curtsy. “Your Royal Highness…”

Sander forced a smile and regarded them back, barely realizing when Britt eagerly offered her hand with the palm down and the back of the hand up, already signaling for him to take the proper motions. Oh. He reluctantly took her hand at the fingers, bowing slightly while raising it, and lightly kissing the back of it with a dry peck.

Still holding her hand, he gracefully brought it back down until she withdrew it, smiling up at him ever so ardently and handing over the gift. 

He ignored the looks that everyone else gave them, including Mabelie’s heart-struck one, swiftly stepping aside to his father’s left with a grumble twist of his lips. Something inside of him wanted to recoil in forever.

Past the Courtyard of Truth, they all languidly walked through several rooms and corridors as his father boasted along, purposely ignoring the barren ballroom that had been cold for years.  _ One that would remain so until true love entered _ , according to Sander’s mother on one warm spring evening,  _ eventually lighting the torches as if by divine hand _ .

There were few times in which he dared to stroll in, fusing himself with the reverberations of his own footsteps that eerily echoed. The row of ceiling-high crystal chandeliers hung ever so lavishly upon an arching sky-blue work, casting one of the largest murals in the kingdom to be painted along its walls. It was almost sad to look at it all once the light of the day whisked away, leaving it soulless and void. He would imagine it on an ebullient night, ones where his mother still joyously lived, the stars blinking so highly above a vast crowd of lords and ladies, dancing and enjoying themselves to a merry’s end.

He wondered if he would ever live to see it as such again. 

Servants were already running rampant by the time they reached the Royal Dining Hall, scooting out chairs and placing the finalizing touches on platters and trays. The rows of candles were already lit, complementing the warm ambience. 

Everything was served with gold and silver cutlery, each stoutly upholding the tradition of copious meals as the night eventually began. The soup and starters were followed by roasts and salads, then puddings and finally fruit. With each service, a different procession of servants brought in dishes in gold for the King, silver or silver-gilt for everyone else. 

And every so often, Sander’s gaze would land upon the royal chair at the head of the long table where his father sat, carved of a fine oak, crested with several jewels and decorative metals forming an elegant coat of arms. The seat of the King was often impressive, likening everyone else’s seats to mere stools. Yet it was a throne that followed everywhere he went, one that Sander couldn’t ever imagine himself in. 

Others would have argued that it was bathed in the blood of those who had fought for it, for all the anger and wickedness in their hearts that led to such a graceful current period.

Thinking about it for too long made his head hurt. 

Besides, he had also been restraining himself from not staring up at the beautiful boy again, unable to focus on anything (or anyone) else, not even the throttling expressions that Noor sent over every couple or so minutes. 

_ He wanted to talk to him. _

“My son has also been practicing his swordsmanship. Broadsword fighting and the rest.” His father gloated from an already near-empty goblet of wine at some point, gesturing over towards him.

Sander brought himself back into the conversation, darting his gaze between everyone whose eyes were now all on him. The sight taunted. He hated these kinds of nights for a reason. 

His mother’s words,  _ “No wrists or hands on the table!”  _ seemingly also returned, realizing his clumsy mistake as he hurriedly returned to proper manners. 

“Is that true?” Someone asked him. He wasn’t too sure, or rather cared, of anyone’s names or titles at the moment. 

“Ehm, yes, I assume.” Sander replied rather awkwardly. “I practice everyday.”

He wouldn’t mention how often he was yanked from his artistic endeavors to do so, or how often his father berated him for spending so much time in the Drawing Room. He wouldn’t mention the grueling hours that he needed to endure to just get one move correct. One feint. One moulinet. One parry.  _ Advance and retreat.  _

Keeping his correct posture, hips slightly cocked with the blade edge down, all while supporting a shield in one hand and his trusty sword in another became an entirely new form of bearing and tolerance for him. 

But when no one else wanted to elaborate past that, he was grateful that the tune of conversation seemed to have already moved on. 

Daring himself, he cast a brief look towards the boy in that passing moment of time. It treacherously floored him as to how much he craved for it, desired it.  _ Just one. _

How dangerously his heart jumped when he found those pair of heavenly eyes already on him.

_. _

Boisterous loud laughter swarmed the table by the last plate served.

Nearly everyone sounded drunk, clanking goblets together with the clumsiest motions. A throng of conversations were all taking place at once, too chaotic, too hectic. Words became garbles of phrases, and it had quickly become a rather unnerving sight. 

And Sander was more than aware of the fact that Britt wouldn’t stop looking at him, as if ready to jump on the chance to ask for time to be alone. She hadn’t stopped trying to catch his gaze for the past ten minutes. 

He felt sick. 

Not even Noor could assist him in the position that she was in, forcibly swooped into a long conversation between the Marchioness and Mabelie. His fingers nervously thrummed against the table, counting his seconds. There was just no way he would survive any more of this royal malarkey. He had lost his appetite much too long ago amidst no desire to drink even a sip of wine either.

An escape seemed impossible.

Yet, just out of the corner of his eye, he immediately paid note to how the mysterious boy had suddenly stood himself up, murmuring something to the nearby guests to most likely excuse himself. The table was  _ long _ , and it only became harder for Sander to decipher what was going on, his gaze trained on how the boy soon disappeared into the shadows of the northern corridors. 

No royal guard appeared to have been bothered by the exit either, barely paying attention to mind. 

Sander gaped. 

A raw type of adrenaline coursed through him in spikes. 

On a thread of hope and impulsive reckoning, he immediately stood up too, so quickly mumbling an excuse to whoever was next to him and scurrying away that not even Britt could have sensed it coming.

He breathed hard, legs taking him into the same direction that the boy had wandered off towards, too entranced to stop, too fascinated, too far tempted to not look back and cower back in fear. As if fate itself was luring in him. 

“Your Royal Highness—”

His body nearly slammed into a uniform of knightly armor, almost cursing under his breath before quickly stopping himself and looking up to meet the stone-cold, unimpressed eyes of a guard stationed by the shadows. 

_ Agh. _

“Can a Prince not want to go to the toilet in private?” Sander’s heart flailed, but he kept his voice steady and proper, hardening his features into a flabbergasted expression. 

The royal guard hesitantly loosened their hand upon him, eyes unsure. 

“The King requests—” They began. 

“The King—” Sander interrupted himself, frowning a glance upon the still-rambunctious table. “My father is drunk at the moment. If he has allowed his guard to be dropped down this easily, then he must not sense any threat from our guests tonight.” He paused, swallowing the rise of bile. “Do you not trust the word of the only natural heir to the throne?”

Something in the air veered. The guard hesitated once more, but said no word more. They took their brute hand away and kept their narrow eyes trained on Sander, even as he capitalized on the given chance and nearly skipped away as fast as one ever could, slow steps turning into long, eager, quick strides.

Turning a corner, he set off across the vast expanse of polished marble, keeping to the ornately painted walls when possible to muffle the echoing footfalls.

Holding a bated breath, Sander couldn’t quite believe that he had gotten away with it, never more at a joyous rupture that everyone else found themselves seemingly occupied in the Royal Dining Hall. The rest of the palace fell abnormally quiet. He cautiously walked under the gold-laced tapestries, the chandeliers that hung from gilded ceilings, past the many sculptures carved from the best marble, keeping a keen eye out for who he was running after. 

_ Perhaps he was a prince after all. _

After five minutes of roaming around for the boy, he eventually reached the end of a long corridor where all of the ancient libraries stood. Everything stopped once he recognized a figure sat alone on the crook of a bay window, gazing out toward the nightly falls. 

His heart skipped, fastly thumping, then nearly stilling. They were alone. He blindly trusted his instincts, knowing that the boy couldn’t have been out for his life. The stars were agreeing with him too, twinkling the brightest. His steps became even slower, simply taken aback at how silent everything else stood around them. He didn’t miss how the moonlight seemed to frame every possible angle of the boy’s face with the most angelic touch, rays crossing past a soft jawline, fluttering eyelashes, a rounded little nose, the perfect mouth. 

_ God _ . Sander told himself to get it together, licking his lips and wading just a little closer. The sight only gave him the confirmation that he already knew. The boy was  **beautiful** , more than that. If such other words existed of higher power, he would’ve searched heaven and hell for it. 

But he was no good at hiding his unannounced arrival, accidentally squeaking his boot against the ground as the boy immediately tensed, quickly turning around with a startled expression.

“Your Royal Highness—“ 

_ Oh, he was so cute. _ Even as it felt like his heart would drop out of his chest with nerves, Sander bit back a quiet, sheepish laugh. Never had someone saying such words to him make his cheeks redden, shyly stepping out of the shadows. “Don’t call me that.”

The boy parted his lips in shock. His eyes widened. “What?”

“The first time was enough.” Sander softened his tone, unabashedly tender. “I can’t stand hearing that title. You can call—ah. I’m just…Sander.”

The boy still looked wary, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. A golden chain, thin and almost hidden, just then glinted bewitchingly against the caught light, looped around like the carving of a god. 

Sander surged with relief. He took a hesitant step closer, praying that he wouldn’t be seen as some monster for whatever talk that the town spread of him. For too long he had felt like one, burdening on others and not worthy of anything past the barest thread of care.

Still, he didn’t want to lose this chance. “May I ask of yours?”

A long pause. 

The boy clasped his fingers together, veins prominent as he fiddled between them, looking back out towards the glass panel where the night sky gleamed prominently. “Well, I’m just… _ Robbe _ .”

Robbe. Sander wanted to repeat it a million times over and over. 

On the tip of his tongue, he still couldn’t keep his gaze averted from someone who looked right out of his wildest dreams, the kindest ones, the ones that felt so out-of-reach for him, radiating so much warmth and pure kindness and grace.

He just knew. He knew. He knew. Something inside of him was coruscating like flashes of golden nirvana, like twin flames cavorting in the Elysian Fields where souls meet. 

“If I may ask.” Robbe wondered quietly, peeking a sly glance over. He bashfully looked away when he caught Sander staring. “How are you here just by yourself?”

“I  _ escaped _ .” Sander attempted to tease, eyes dancing a melody of their own, heartedly taking the other side of the bay window seat bench. 

And if he was seeing things correctly, he swore the hint of the faintest smirk bloomed by Robbe’s mouth. “Not very kingly of you.”

Sander’s own lips twitched. “I am not a king.”

“But you will be.”

“Against my own will.”

Robbe’s expression changed, solemnity mixed with regret. He continued to gaze out of the window, moonlight dancing off the reflection of his longing eyes. “Will you be asking for her hand in marriage tonight?” A correction. “Lady Britt’s, I mean.”

“Is that the talk of the town?”

“It would be wrong of me to lie to you.” Robbe simply said, voice swirling the sweetest notes of honey with just the smallest hint of melancholy. 

Sander couldn’t read him. Sander, who always found himself able to cut through people’s nonsense and faux facades easily, now found himself stuck at a crossroads. 

How so desperately he wished to know what Robbe currently thought. 

Instead he steadied his gaze out towards the window too, quietly breathing out. “I’m not. Not if I can help it.”

“You don’t approve?”

“No. Never in a million years.”

His internal emotions swirled in thunderous clouds of pain, recalling the long nights of arguments with his father on how strongly he opposed arranged marriages of any kind. He wouldn’t ever dare bring up the mention of his mother and how his own parents’ relationship came to be, knowing that he’d be threatened with the dungeons in vengeoning hiss. Those nights were often followed by several restless, lonely days and nights, only calmed by the motions of his fingers between brushes and ink, the feel of familiar canvas beneath his skin. His escape. 

Robbe only shakily hummed, face beautifully still. The air grew quiet between them again.

Sander had become awfully aware of his own breathing, hoping that his own nerves weren’t coming out in jagged heaves. He bent his knee and played with the ends of his trousers. 

“Sometimes I wish I could run away…run away from all of this.” He frowned at his own reflection, in utter confusion of who he was becoming. “Or even just out to the gardens…I haven’t been allowed to go there by myself since I was fifteen. Is it even possible to imagine something like that?”

Robbe huffed a sound of mutual distaste, sadly curving his lips with sympathy. 

Taking that as a sign, it was then that Sander gently pushed the window open, unveiling the stately gardens that so wholly blossomed in its moonlit beauty. His eyes fell to where the ground dropped away on every side from a terrace adorned with ornamental basins, statues, and bronze groups. To the manicured gardens that sloped so gently down to the pathways of geometric topiaries and bordering hedgerows. All the way down to the very center where it all met at the King’s Dragon Fountain, a crescent-shaped sight that often sent jets of water up into the air throughout the summer months. 

And just to the south was his favorite part, the raised flower beds that led to a pair of staircases that flanked a grove with over hundreds of trees. He sadly smiled at it all, remembering how often he wildly ran through them with his mother in tow, jumping up and down to reach for the palms, pomegranates, lemons, oranges, and every other gem that appeared to occupy the space.

Robbe’s voice melted through his brain like a singsong, through the memories with the golden touch of an angel. “I can help you.”

A buzz thrummed. Sander’s voice came out soft. “What?”

“Help you.” Robbe repeated himself, firmer. The confidence exuded out in ways that made Sander’s stomach somersault. “I can help you escape out to the gardens by yourself.” 

Sander pressed his lips together, afraid that he’d begin grinning like an idiot. He quietly laughed with disbelief. “But with you by my side, I’m presuming? I’m quite intrigued as to how you would know your ways around this place…”

Robbe softly smiled, finally turning toward him. His beauty lay out on full display by the moon’s hand, nearly rendering Sander speechless. “I have to warn you, though. If I get caught, tonight will be the first and last time you ever see my face…”

The thought of it made something foreign twist inside of Sander. He scooted closer, convincing himself forever. “I won’t let that happen. I promise you.”

Comforting silence followed. They stared at each other for a few seconds, somehow understanding everything they wanted to say with no words spoken. It made Sander’s butterfly mess of feelings hop and spread all over. How beguiled of a person he became in just mere moments of talking to this boy— _ Robbe _ . 

“Come, then.”

Robbe stood up first, revealing his lean frame as he outstretched his arm out, offering his hand with the most gentle expression.

_ I will follow you wherever you go. As long as your offered hand is open to me, I will always take it.  _ Sander felt overwhelmed, emotions running rampant. 

Their hands touched and it was light.

It was light pouring down from everywhere, the warmth flooding despite the nightfall of a thousand skies, blazing something within Sander that he had not experienced ever in his life. 

He was at a loss of words in how to describe it, but he was  _ gone _ . In the deep end. 

They probably didn’t have much time until the dinner ended and his father would soon seek him out, or perhaps even Britt, sending out a war of guards if needed.

But Sander kept his timetables in check.

He dropped the worries, even if it were only for the next fifteen minutes, simply basking in the thrilling feeling of what it was to sneakily run through the dimly-lit halls of the palace. Smiling wider by the second, hand-in-hand with a boy who he had just met, but one who utterly captivated his entire being.

_ Who exactly was Robbe? _

_ He was going to figure it out. _

He squeezed their hands as his thoughts rushed a million miles and Robbe immediately looked back, smiling and cheeks flustered with windswept curls of brown locks,  _ beautiful _ .

The stars bellowed out cries of intimate warmth. He would hold onto this moment for as long as he could. 

He ran and ran, and he was never freer. 


End file.
